Dunkirk Spirit Part 28

'Um! Excuse me, captain,' interrupted the Padre, watching on keenly. 'But you cannot be thinking of blowing up that bridge, not with all those people on it. Surely not?'

'Do you have any better suggestions, Padre?' asked Nigel, clearly irritated by the intrusion.

'Well, um! We should appeal to them. Point out the necessity of destroying this bridge.'

'Oh, really?' asked Nigel. 'Sergeant!'

'Sir!'

'Fire into the crowd.'

The Padre's jaw dropped. The sergeant leant against the lip of the trench and manhandled the Bren into position. He squeezed the trigger and about ten rounds struck directly into the crowd. Still they poured on.

'Oh, my G.o.d! Oh, my G.o.d!' The Padre thought he was going to faint. His legs turned to jelly. He drew a deep breath and hesitated. Suddenly, he clambered up the side of the trench and ran back towards the bridge, his arms held wide.

'Sergeant!'

'Sir!'

'Shoot that man! Bring him down!'

The sergeant lined up the Bren. 'b.u.g.g.e.r! Can't get a clear shot, sir.'

'Fire anyway.'

The Bren stuttered and people began to crumple on the edge of the bridge.

'Corporal!' Nigel bellowed. 'Go get that Man of G.o.d. He's your b.l.o.o.d.y responsibility. You, too, Stowe. You've got just two minutes. Any longer and I shall blow you up with it. Now run man!'

The Padre, if he had been asked, would be not able to describe the thoughts that ran through his brain as he stumbled onto the bridge. Somewhere in his mind was the notion that he could halt the refugees and turn back the tide. He was relying on a miracle. The smoke, pushed on by the crowd of desperate people, swirled across the bridge, merging to produce an unearthly purple haze. The Padre was pushed and shoved by the torrent.

'Stop! In the name of G.o.d! Turn back!' He dropped to his knees.

As the corporal and Stowe reached the bridge they found the refugees pouring in two streams past the Padre and a pile of dead and writhing men, women and children. The Padre alternately brought his hands together to pray or lifted them towards the heavens imploring a higher power to intervene. Tears streamed down his tormented face. The corporal clumped him across the nape of the neck with the b.u.t.t of his rifle and the Padre toppled forward in a heap.

The air filled with a series of m.u.f.fled roars as other bridges along the lengthy ca.n.a.l rose into the sky and fell with painful slowness back to earth.

Nigel watched as the two guardsmen dropped into the trench, the Padre draped like a dead stag across the corporal's back.

'Eyes down for a full house!' he called and depressed the plunger.

For those who saw it, the bridge appeared to rise slowly into the air, three separate sections breaking away and crumbling as the charges exploded beneath. People, carts, dogs and several horses rose into the sky along with the rubble. Slower still they descended to earth. Other items began to land with wet dull plops around the men huddled in the trench system along the ca.n.a.l.

The Major, who had his fingers in his ears, was surprised to find a gentleman's...o...b..ood shoe, the equivalent to a size nine, land directly in front of him. He picked it up and examined the sole.

'N-n-nice st.i.tching,' he commented. Blood trickled down his sleeve. 'Oh, d-d-dear!' he exclaimed. 'N-n-not very nice!' He dropped the shoe and the gentleman's ankle protruded from the remains of a grey sock. Other body parts continued to fall. One of the largest pieces, the head and neck section of a horse, soared directly over the cottage to collapse the dinner table earlier set up by Lucas.

Nigel was standing on top of the trench watching the last traces of granite disturb the surface of the ca.n.a.l. The swirling coloured smoke merged with the dust, drifting into the sky, and along both banks of the ca.n.a.l. The screams were terrible.

'Sergeant!' called Nigel. 'Get those pioneers to lend a hand. I don't want to see any blood and gore along our sector. Get the place cleaned up.'

'Yes, sir.'

'And sergeant. I don't want those wounded civilians hanging about here. Get rid of them.'

'He's coming to,' said Lucas, waving the smelling salts beneath the Padre's nose. 'h.e.l.lo, sir,' he said. 'Time to wake up now. You've had your beauty sleep.'

The Padre jerked convulsively as the salts struck home. He banged the back of his head against a trench revet.

'Ouch!' he exclaimed, bringing a hand up to the back of his neck and discovering an egg-sized lump. He pulled his eyes open with difficulty and tried to look at the Major.

'h.e.l.lo, P-p-padre!' The Major was smiling. 'How's your h-h-head? And you will never g-g-guess?'

'What?'

'These f-f-fine officers have a wonderful stock of w-w-wines and b-b-beers.' He waved a small chubby brown bottle towards the Padre and then downed the lot in three swift gulps.

'Belgian beer, P-p-padre! Much better than that ins-s-sipid F-f-french stuff. And you will never g-g-guess. I know that c-c-chap's father. That one over there wearing slippers and resting his feet. I meet him in Ulster, all very hush-hush.'

The Major lent forward conspiratorially. The Padre struggled to focus. Two indistinct Majors wobbled before his eyes. Major Featherstonehaugh had pulled back his hand and was waving the empty sleeve of his battledress in the Padre's face in imitation of Mad Scotch Bob.

'His father's a bit of a n-n-nutter, but don't say anything.'

14:40 Thursday 30 May 1940.

Bergues, France The cold, bitter anger in Archie Marley's heart continued to fester as he tapped quietly on the door and waited.

'Hold your horses!' came a faint reply from the other side.

Archie waited.

'All right, open the door slowly and come on in. But no sudden movements.'

Archie turned the handle and pushed the door open. He stepped cautiously into the room.

'Hold it there,' said the voice. 'Now close the door nice and slow.'

Archie complied.

'Now drop down to the floor and crawl over here.'

Archie crouched down, feeling the strain tighten on his bandages. He dropped to all fours and edged his way across the room. The room was a shambles. Each and every window had been broken and a pile of furniture had been stacked in the centre. Behind the furniture stood a private of the Loyals, his rifle resting on top of a cus.h.i.+on on a chest of drawers, his attention fixed on a point beyond the window. He did not look at Archie as he spoke again.

'You my new number two?' he asked.

'They said to report here,' answered Archie, still crouched on the floor and looking up at the private.

'Champion! Come on, tuck yourself behind here,' he said quietly. 'I'll be with you in a mo'.' The man stood rigid and silent for some time. A navy blue bandana was tied around his face to ward off the clouds of smoke that billowed everywhere.

Eventually he spoke, but not to Archie. 'Ah, come on,' he whispered quietly. 'Show yourself.' He paused again. 'There's a Jerry over there,' he explained by way of a commentary and still not looking around. 'I can see his blooming hand. That's it boy. Just move forward a mite. b.o.l.l.o.c.ks! b.l.o.o.d.y smoke! Now I can't see nowt!'

'Can I have a look?' asked Archie eventually.

'All right c.o.c.k,' said the private. 'Lift yourself up but do it nice and slow. We don't want to draw their attention. See those plane trees way over yonder to the right?'

'Yeah,' answered Archie dutifully.

'And you see that farmhouse? Not the barn but the actual cottage?'

'Yeah.'

'Well, there's a Jerry patrol on the first floor. And there's a bloke in that far room by the drainpipe with some kind of range finder. But will he show himself? Will he 'eck! That's a boy. Come on. Just lean forward. Just a bit. Oh, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d!'

'Do you want me to have a closer look?' asked Archie tapping his own Lee Enfield.

'No, you best stay put. I've had my sights on this bloke for three hours and more. And I'm gonna have him. Do you fish?' he asked suddenly.

'Fish? What, perch and tench and things?'

'Aye. Do you?'

'Yeah, I used to fish along the ca.n.a.l most Sat.u.r.days.'

'Good,' answered the private. 'It helps.'

They were both silent for some minutes more and then the private spoke again. 'You hungry?' he asked.

'Starving!'

'Well, there's some bully and biscuits in that satchel down by the wall behind you.'

Archie pulled himself slowly away from the chest of drawers and looked for the satchel. Inside he found several tins of Frey Bentos corned beef and even more packets of biscuits. One tin was already open and Archie pulled it out of the bag and instantly drove his fingers into the pale pink ma.s.s, sucking eagerly.

'Now, who's this?' asked the private, resuming his commentary. 'Oh, I don't believe it! There's another daft b.u.g.g.e.r crawling across the floor at the back of that room. That's a boy, you stay there! Oh, it just gets better. He's stopped to open something. Something wrapped in paper. Oh, you stupid...' The rifle rang out, the sound reverberating around the room. '...Sod!'

The private slithered down like a snake and dropped beside Archie, resting his back against the chest. He slid back the bolt on his rifle, ejecting the expended cartridge case and chambering another. There was another click as he flicked the safety.

'William Rogers,' he announced, pulling down the bandana. 'But everyone calls me Buck. And you?'

'Archie Marley.'

'Owdo!' He leant over and held out his hand.

'I think I'd rather be fis.h.i.+ng,' said Archie, wiping his own hand on his greatcoat and then shaking warmly.

'Wouldn't we all,' said Buck. 'Anyway, best not hang about,' he announced. 'Grab that bag will yer?' With that, he slipped down onto the floor and pulled himself towards the door. Archie followed.

'I guess you're wondering why I want a new number two?' he asked once they had crawled into the hallway.

Archie preferred not to think about it. 'No,' he answered, 'And if I told you the last one got a bullet between the eyes...'

'Oh, great!' said Archie.

'...I'd be lying,' laughed Buck. 'He was a big jessy. f.u.c.king useless!' He smiled at Archie as they stood up. 'Can you shoot?' he asked.

'I'm not bad,' said Archie.

'Where'd you learn, then?'

'Um, my Uncle Ben works on a farm. I used to help out with the harvest. Rabbits mostly.'

'Lamping?' asked Buck.

'Sometimes. But I used to like riding on the harvester best. They'd all gather in the centre of the wheat as we closed in on them. You could hardly miss. Mind you, you can get mighty sick of eating rabbit!'

'Better than b.l.o.o.d.y bully and Singe, eh?'

'Certainly better than Singe,' agreed Archie, although he had still to sample any. 'Is it really made from Moroccan monkeys?'

'So they say,' laughed Buck again. He had a tooth missing at the front and made a small whistle each time he p.r.o.nounced an S.

'Well, we can't stay here,' he announced with a sibilate peep. 'That b.u.g.g.e.r with the range-finder will call the artillery in on us any minute.' He c.o.c.ked his head and indicated Archie to follow.

'Right!' said Buck once they had entered a back street and nestled inside a narrow shop doorway. 'Let's have a quick gasp and then we'll move on. I want to see if I can get a better shot from up on that roof.' He indicated a solid public building at the edge of the square. Thick black smoke billowed across the street. He then prized the lid off a tin of Gold Leaf and shook them under Archie's nose. There was a loud boom as artillery began to fall in the street behind them. Dust burst through an upstairs window and began to settle on their shoulders.

Archie pulled a cigarette free and sniffed the Virginia tobacco. 'Thanks! So where did you learn to shoot?'

'Funfairs, mostly,' grinned Buck. 'And you can get mighty sick of cutie dolls and goldfish too!'

Archie followed Buck at a trot up the steps of the htel de ville and through the large double doors. The satchel was beginning to bite into his shoulder. The ground floor, aside from a handful of wounded men, was largely deserted. They took the stairs and climbed up. On the first floor a dozen or so British soldiers were heaving desks and cabinets out of a large room and dragging them towards an open window. Two more men lifted the desks and tossed them out of the window and down into the empty street. Archie took in the scene without question and continued following Buck up the stairs. They halted when they reached the third floor. Small cramped offices ran off the central corridor. Buck made his way to the middle and dropped down to the floor. He pulled a sheet of crumpled paper from his breast pocket.

'This is my map,' explained Buck, spreading it out on the floor. The star-shaped fortifications of the town were drawn in a neat hand. 'We are here now. The farm is over there. And, as you can see, I've worked out my effective range from various key points.' He ran his finger in a curved line from the main road to the extreme eastern edge of the town walls.

'Impressive,' said Archie.

'I should have been a blooming surveyor, I should.'

'What were you? Before?'

'Munic.i.p.al bus driver,' explained Buck. 'In Wigan. Never a dull moment and good for a pension.'

'So what's next then?' asked Archie.

Buck pulled himself to his feet and slipped the paper back in his pocket. He jerked his head for Archie to follow.

The room had earlier taken a direct artillery hit and beams stretched down from the gaping ceiling. Clouds and smoke drifted by above. Masonry and rubble littered the floor and the acrid remains of the explosive charge lingered in the air. At the far end of the room a narrow skylight looked out over the town's southern wall. Both men dropped to the floor and edged their way over.

'Take these,' said Buck, pa.s.sing over a pair of heavy binoculars. He lifted his rifle and peered down the scope, scanning the countryside below. 'There's the farmhouse,' he declared. 'Just past those allotments. The Jerries have probably b.u.g.g.e.red off now, but let's take a look at the barn.'